


The Room, Please

by geneeste



Series: Love & Communication [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: And then I made them do it, F/M, Includes a little moment with the Newb Team, Lemon, Macha made me do it, Otherwise just smutty smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, So I'm not sure who's to blame here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 06:49:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9480002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geneeste/pseuds/geneeste
Summary: It’s too much. Felicity’s too much, standing there in that damned leather jacket. She looks defiant and angry and suddenly so unbearably sexy–why, why is irate Felicity such a turn on?–and it’s too much.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MachaSWicket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/gifts).



> @machawicket requested a cavalcade of Oliver kicking the newbs out so they could, um, have a more intimate discussion. I can’t manage a cavalcade, but I can get things started, as it were. Also, forgot to add: because this is more AU than not, it could easily be a little scene out of my Love & Communication series (i.e., Oliver and Felicity got married in Season 4 and enter events in S5 a happily married couple).
> 
> Lemony PWP ahead.

It’s too much. Felicity’s too much, standing there in that damned leather jacket. She looks defiant and angry and suddenly so unbearably sexy--why, _why_ is irate Felicity such a turn on?--and it’s too much.

They’re in the middle of the lair, surrounded by Curtis and Rory and Rene, when Oliver thinks: _Fuck it._

A second later, Rene glimpses Oliver’s face and groans. “Come _on._ ”

“Can we have the room, please?” Oliver can’t help it; his mouth is dry, all his desire seeming to coalesce all at once, so he licks his lips. Felicity’s dark eyes flicker down and back up, and goddamn it, there are three too many people in this space.

“Yep, we need to leave,” Curtis states evenly, then turns on his heel toward the elevator. He grabs the back of Rene’s jacket along the way.

“Man, they can’t keep doing this, at some point we actually have to train,” Rene protests, although he goes anyway, voice fading as they near the exit.

Oliver might care about Rene’s complaints, except he’s too busy imagining a scene where he’s hauling Felicity up onto the worktable behind her, thrusting into her while he holds onto that leather jacket for leverage.

“Do you really want to get between them right now? Because I really don’t,” Rory cuts in, just as the elevators doors close, so they don’t hear whatever Rene’s reply is.

As soon as the elevator rumbles its way up, Oliver is across the floor to Felicity’s computer, engaging the protocol that locks down their floor so that the elevator can’t return.

Then he’s stalking back toward Felicity without a word.

“Oliver,” she warns, and he’s not certain if she’s in the mood for this, but he’s sure as hell going to find out. When he gets close, she holds up a hand. “You’re in the wrong here.”

“Fine,” he bites out, stripping off his suit jacket.

She must know that he doesn’t really mean it, because her face flushes. “ _Not_ fine, mister. What are you doing?”

“Apologizing,” he shoots back, then brings her face close with both hands. “Isn’t that what you want?”

He can feel her breath rush out and over his face as she exhales sharply, and a flush of a different kind runs down her neck and past where he can see it to her chest. “No. Yes. Y-you--” he loves it when she stutters, when all the words he knows are constantly rushing around her brilliant brain grind to a halt with lust. “You wouldn’t mean it.”

His lips curl. “Then _make_ me mean it.”

It’s a ridiculous, cheesy line, but it works. She abruptly closes the distance between them, capturing his lips in a bruising kiss, and all the remaining blood still available for reason runs completely out of his head.

He wants her closer, he wants to feel skin under his palms, he wants to be inside her, but he can’t get all of those things at once, and remaining anger and mounting frustration and blistering need make his movements jerky and rough.

She gives as good as she gets, pulling him back with her as if she’s read his mind about the worktable, shoving his hands where she wants them on her body, over her breast, squeezing her ass, and that confidence, coupled with all the toned muscle and warm skin under his hands, makes something indefinable tighten inside him.

He grips her hips until she’s firmly against him, desperate for some kind of pressure, groaning against her neck when she presses forward, stomach flush against his painfully hard erection. “Felicity.”

And then her hands are at his belt buckle, fumbling around until his pants are open and her hand is around him and pumping. He can’t stop his hands from spasming against her ass, and she whimpers and her palm feels cool and smooth and she’s teasing his head before she strokes down over and over again and--

Cursing, he grabs her wrist and pulls her hand away, and has to take a minute to calm himself down. “Stop. Stop for a minute,” he says, chest heaving.

She’s smirking, which is not helping the situation. Everything about Felicity is a tempting weakness for him. “Were you about to apologize all over me?”

He barks out a surprised laugh, and soon she’s laughing too. He’s still laughing when he wraps his arms around her, all affection and lightness. He drops a kiss onto her hair. “Definitely not the way I want to say sorry.”

She snorts--which he finds adorable--and leans up to give him a sweet peck on the lips.

He catches her there, enjoying the lingering softness of her lips, deepening the kiss slowly. Felicity smooths her hands over his chest, down and around his waist, and up his back to press between his shoulderblades through his shirt. He imagines she’s wiping away all the conflict and stress from earlier, a loving caress that has him relaxing into her. It’s still passion, still overwhelming, but it feels like they’re building something up, rather than tearing something down.

His fingers follows goosebumps on the flesh of her back under her jacket and blouse, in the valley between her breasts, on her stomach just above the button of her jeans, a route on a map he memorized years ago. He cherishes her sighs as he sucks at the junction of neck, easing her jeans and underwear down over her hips to her knees.

“Want me to turn around?” she asks quietly as she gently unknots his tie and pulls it away.

He shakes his head. “Hang on,” he says, and picks her up and sets her on the edge of the worktable, before going to his knees in front of her.

Her eyes widen behind her glasses. “Oliver, that’s really not--”

“Shh.” He unzips her ankle boots, pulling them off to fall to the floor, leaving her bright purple ankle socks just because he likes the look of them. He kisses the inside of one of her knees when he draws her bottoms off, and then grins at her needy moan. “I’m trying to be contrite here.”

Her lips quirk, but she doesn't say anything. She's a breathtaking picture: her ponytail is askew, there are red spots around her mouth and chin from his beard, and the low neck of her flimsy blouse is pulled down, revealing the luscious swells of her breasts and the lacy edges of her sky blue bra.

He's still staring when she moves to take off her jacket and, he assumes, the rest of her clothes. He shakes himself out of it and stops her arms. “Leave it on.”

If she finds being half-naked odd, she doesn’t show it. He thinks he actually sees a spark of humor in her eyes when she acquiesces.

“Lean back on your elbows,” he tells her, settling her legs over his shoulders, and she does, clearly not caring when items clatter to the floor.

He really doesn’t care either. The only person he cares about right now is in his arms.

There are so many things he loves about Felicity, about doing _this_ with her. He loves how she can’t stay still, how he has to hold her hips down to go down on her, and that she trusts him enough to let him. He loves how he can feel her stomach quiver under his hands when he nips at her thighs. But what he loves most is the sound she makes when his mouth first touches her core, a heady combination of a gasp and a pleasured cry that’s so hot it makes his hands shake.

He thrusts his tongue inside her, then licks a long, firm path up and around her clit, and her hips test his hold with a jerk. He smiles against her, then closes his mouth around her clit and hums.

Felicity is panting above him, and he feels a hand clutch at his head. “This--this seems like a very sincere apol-- _oh!_ ”

He’d taken one hand away from her hips--to give her the freedom to move against his face, but also to push two fingers inside her. The key to this for Felicity is focused attention and sensation, enough to short-circuit her thoughts and keep her body on the edge of overwhelmed.

So he keeps the pressure on, fingers moving relentlessly into her warmth, pressing up on every other stroke, his tongue beating a steady rhythm against her clit. Everything about her is so incredibly erotic--the sweet, musky smell of her, her body spread around him, bare skin contrasted against modest clothes, the throaty sounds tumbling out of her mouth--

So it’s not surprising that it takes him a minute to register her fingers tugging insistently at his hair.

When he pulls back, he’s breathing as hard as she is. “What is it? Are you okay?”

She nods quickly, and he notices that her glasses are gone, wonders when she took them off. “Yes. Yes. I’m wonderful. I just-I want you with me. Please.”

 _God, yes_. He’s not sure if he thought it or said it, but it doesn’t matter, because she’s pulling him up and he’s more than willing to go.

Their bodies meet as their mouths do; there’s some awkward, hurried shuffling to move his clothes out of the way, and then his shaft slicks against her wet center and it’s amazing, but it’s not quite where he wants to be, where he _needs_ to be.

“Hold on to me,” she says hoarsely, urgently lifting her hips and reaching down. “I want you with me.”

“I’m with you, always, I’m with you. Oh _fu_ \--” he doesn’t have any more air in his lungs for words, because he’s sinking into her, and her legs are wrapped around him, taking him deep with one hard push of her hips.

His pulse is pounding in his ears, and he can feel her heart beating in her chest as they pause and just _exist_ together for a moment. He meets and holds her eyes, and there’s a thrum of intense connection between them that still thrills him, even after all the time they’ve been together.

She puts her arms around his shoulders and lifts herself, rising and falling slowly like a wave rolling into him, and for a few moments he’s only capable of holding on.

There’s a fine sheen of sweat across her forehead, and if he leans back, he can see it gathering on her chest as well, and he’s suddenly aching for a taste of her skin. He hitches her up off the table so he has access, and when he sucks and then bites her collarbone, she jolts.

“Okay?” he asks, only just looking up from her pale skin.

“Very okay, very very-” he does it again, and she digs her fingernails into his shoulders.

He grunts, and relaxes his arms a bit so she drops down, thrusting up hard at the same time. Felicity’s head falls back, her mouth open, and he buries his face in her neck, putting his mouth anywhere and everywhere he can.

“Felicity,” he begs, setting her back on the table. He wants to hear her, wants to draw out more of her voice. It’s a physical imperative. “Felicity, you--I need--”

“Yes, Oliver,” she murmurs, knowing exactly want he needs. “ _Yes_. I love you.”

Moaning lowly, he hooks an arm under one of her legs and pulls it toward her chest, gripping the bottom of her leather jacket to keep his arm in place, pumping his hips faster. Her other leg is a vice around him and she’s essentially holding herself up, so he slides his hand over her thigh to where their bodies are joined. When his thumb slips over her clit, he can already feel her body start to tense, her passage start to clench around his cock, and he knows she’s close to unraveling. It’s a good thing, because he’s barely hanging on himself.

“That’s it, Felicity,” he tells her, cajoling, “come on.”

“Just like this, Oliver,” Felicity babbles over him, a hand clinging his shoulder, the other to the back of his head. “I love you just like this, I love you--”

She cuts off of a strangled sound, because he rolls his thumb around her clit, one complete circle, and angles his hips up on his next thrust up so that he’s buried completely inside her.

“Do that again,” she says, voice strained, and it sounds more like a plea than an order.

“Come on,” He growls, this time pulling out almost completely before surging up again. “I want to feel you, I want to hear you, come on--”

“ _Oliver,_ ” she cries out, right by his ear, and it’s beautiful, _she’s_ beautiful, and her body is clamping down around him and he pushes into her once, twice, again, and the world goes white around him. His knees literally go weak as he comes with a shout, and he stumbles with her against the table, instinctively trying to keep them both upright.

She’s spasming around him and trembling--nope, he’s trembling, that’s him. It’s a few moments before he can bring himself to pull gently out of her, and they both moan a little, still sensitive from their aftershocks. He finally releases her leather jacket to drop her leg and fold her into his arms completely, resting his cheek against her temple while he tries to control his breathing.

“You’re forgiven,” Felicity says breathlessly. “I could tell you were very regretful.”

“Very,” he says, kissing down her face to her mouth. “Extremely.”

“Practically overcome with guilt,” she mumbles around his lips.

“Was that guilt?” he teases, stepping back so that she can hop down from the table.

She snickers and fingers his damp dress shirt. “You’re going to need to change.”

He shrugs, feeling silly and vastly improved since half an hour ago. “It was a _vigorous_ workout.”

“That’s as good an excuse as any.” She waggles her eyebrows, blushing only slightly. “We’ll just tell the team we were ‘ _working out’_ ,” she says, putting up air quotes.

“That’s what we told them last time,” he says wryly. “I don’t think they believed us.”

She waves her hand and makes a _pssh_ noise. “Then tell them we were working out our _issues_. It’s...mostly true.” She bends down to pick up her pants. “Besides, we built this lair, we can do what we want in it.”

“I am happy to tell them that,” Oliver deadpans.

Felicity rolls her eyes, pulls on her pants without zipping or buttoning them up, then scoops up her underwear and boots. “I’m going to go put myself together, you good with cleaning up out here?”

He nods, and she squeezes his bicep before turning and walking toward the bathroom. As she passes him, he gets a sudden urge that he can’t resist.

He smacks her ass, the _crack_ of his flat hand meeting her flesh echoing around the room.

“Oh no you did _not_.” She stops abruptly, and turns slowly to face his, face red and mouth open. “Do you _want_ me to yell at you some more?”

He gives her a toothy, not-quite innocent grin. “Would you?”

She narrows her eyes.

Oh yeah. Angry Felicity is _such_ a turn on.

-30-


End file.
